


Evergreen

by Phoenix_of_Athena



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Angst, Brief Mention of Suicide, Cross-Posted on Tumblr, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Holiday Fic Exchange, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Introspection, POV Undertaker, Pre-Canon, Prompt Fill, The Kuro-ween Event 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-03
Updated: 2018-11-03
Packaged: 2019-08-14 12:36:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16492727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoenix_of_Athena/pseuds/Phoenix_of_Athena
Summary: It has been two months exactly since the fire that destroyed the Phantomhive Manor.  Two months, and on an anniversary like today, how could the Undertaker stay away?  It is only right to remember those who were lost, even if it takes him away from his work.





	Evergreen

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HoshisamaValmor (HannibalCatharsis)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HannibalCatharsis/gifts).



> For hannibalcatharsis-zero on tumblr, who exchanged gifts with me for the kuro-ween event. :)
> 
> Prompt: For a fanfic piece, Undertaker visiting Vincent’s grave and/or also remembering Claudia. After all, Halloween is also a day to remember and honor your loved ones. As the Kuro-ween does not allow for ship material, I suppose anything implied between Claudia and Undertaker is not allowed, but if the writer can work it out, it’d be nice.

It is nearly evening as the Undertaker makes his way through the heavy February snow. A fierce breeze rakes across the countryside, whistling through a copse of pines and leafless oaks and picking up his hair to toss it about his face. Bowing against the cold, he lifts a hand to hold down the brim of his hat and shuffles forwards.

A short distance ahead is the low iron gate in the fence that circles the graveyard, and he makes his way towards it, his boots leaving deep impressions in the snow. The gate opens with a stiff creak under his hand, and he pulls his robes tighter about himself as he walks amongst the tombstones. 

It is a small cemetery, beside an equally small chapel within the Phantomhive earldom. He makes his way easily towards the family plot which is his destination—not least because of how often he has visited, especially in recent months. Finally, he comes to a stop. He stares down at the line of stones—two graves filled, containing only blackened bones, and two which still lie empty—and lets the world settle into stillness around him. He is alone here, on this chilly, unpleasant afternoon, and in the absence of his footsteps it is quiet. The bluster of the wind has tapered off and the snow falls lighter as it coats his hat and shoulders. There is the whisper of the breeze and the creaking of trees, and then nothing. 

The stones in front of him are still and cold, dark against the winter glow and white only in the grooves of letters and at the thick shelves of snow which have settled at their tops. The Undertaker stoops and reaches out to brush the snow away with his sleeve, clearing the four graves. 

It has already been two months, he muses as he cleans the snow out of the crooks of letters. Two months already, and the time has passed unbearably slowly, as all time seems to do these days. He clears out a C-E-N-T, and moves on to P-H-A. Vincent Phantomhive, born on the thirteenth of June, 1851, died on the fourteenth of December, 1885. Only thirty-four years old. Survived by one son. Just one. The Undertaker sighs softly, and the sound is caught and muffled by the snow as if it had never been. 

Perhaps coming out here had been a mistake. He has work to do; a project very near and dear to his heart. But it has been exactly two months, and it feels wrong to leave them here alone, in the cold, on this day. The Undertaker has never been one to let go easily.

Unconsciously, he raises his head, and his gaze shifts to the row of headstones behind the ones that he has cleared. He knows their inscriptions by heart; he has been here oh so very many times over the years. 

His eyes settle on the space where the grave he knows best lies. He can barely see it from here, but he knows its shape, the texture of the stone under his fingertips and the skin of his cheek. He remembers how deep he’d dug the grave, and precisely the way he’d laid her carefully into the lacquered casket. In his mind’s eye, the Undertaker can still see Claudia Phantomhive as she’d been when she was alive; and she’d been so very, viscerally alive in the same way that her son had been. The Phantomhive blood burns bright, shows though in the quickness of their wit and the sharpness of their eyes. They dance so closely to the edge, live so viciously and determinedly and foolishly. Foolishly. His eyes drop. The letters on Vincent’s grave blur heavily in his vision.

But just who is he to talk of fools? At the very least, when a Phantomhive makes a wretched choice, they go with eyes wide open. And perhaps it is better to doom yourself with intent than without…but better still not to doom yourself at all.

The Undertaker shifts, straightening, and the snow crumbles off from his shoulders and his sleeves. It falls to the ground in scattered clumps at his feet. The snow is darker now, he notices, purpled with the falling dusk, and the cold presses heavy around him. It has been a very cold, dark winter since the fire, and when he looks ahead he cannot see it becoming any brighter.

There are many things that trouble the Undertaker in that moment, as he stands alone in the cemetery amidst the falling snow. The future looms, daunting, dim and endless; loss after loss will pile high enough to drown him. The faces of the dead swim before his eyes. All gone; all dead, but one. And already the last Phantomhive stands with one foot in the grave. The child is set up for a long and bitter suicide at the hands of a demon.

The Undertaker’s numb fingers ball in his trailing sleeves, and his nails catch in the damp wool and crusted snow.

Life…is immeasurably precious. He knows this now. Yet always and all around him are death and decay, and the Undertaker cannot take it—!

He blinks, then, and abruptly he realizes that the night has fallen all around him. The darkness had crept up on him as he stood here staring at cold stone with the chill sinking into his bones. He can no longer feel his feet, buried past the ankle, and the wind has long since tousled his long hair into a frosted, disordered mess. Stiffly, he stirs, rubbing his hands together. 

The headstones have been obscured by the night, and the graveyard is still and dark. He shouldn’t stay, he knows. He has work to do.

But still.

He lingers, his eyes fixed sightlessly on letters etched into his memory. Then, finally, he says:

“Goodbye, my dears. I’ll be back soon. I promise.”

His voice is rough, and his tongue heavy against cold-numbed lips. His chin dips down into his high collar, and he turns to go, forcing himself into motion.

He leaves a winding line of footprints in the snow. They will be covered up by morning.

**Author's Note:**

> Wow. So. I was actually shocked, when I read this prompt, at just how much my kind of fic this was…. In fact…It was almost too much so. I am writing or have written some things that are just so similar to the themes of the prompt that it was actually a challenge to create something brand new while still sticking to what was requested. In the end, though, once I got going this was quite fun to write. Introspective stuff is kind of my jam, so I went that way rather than making it plotty. I also did my best to hint at Undertaker’s connection to Claudia, as requested, without breaking the exchange's no-pairing rule.  
> Anyways, that's it from me! Hope you enjoyed!


End file.
